


Ethereal Grace

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Gen, Gen Work, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I like stags, the Dalish camps have halla. It was destiny, and also inevitable.</p></blockquote>





	Ethereal Grace

If Zevran had to compare Theron to an animal, it would be a halla stag. They had all watched at the Dalish camp long ago at the beginning of their journey as the ranger had helped Elora’s halla, calming it with an expert touch that spoke of his natural affinity for animals. The deer were strange creatures, far different to the regular deer outside the Brecilian Forest. Silver-furred, with beautifully curved, carved antlers, silent creatures that seemed to embody the forest, in all of it’s grace and hidden secrets. It was as if the halla had stepped out of some book of children’s fairy tales.

Theron enjoyed the nomadic lifestyle he was used to, patiently enduring when the others complained of the damp and blisters and constant travel. He tended to wander even when the camp was settled, and was elusive - he could disappear through the trees and fields on silent feet at will, and would be impossible to find for hours on end. He almost always returned, thankfully. Sometimes his reasoning was in ensuring there were no bears or wolf packs close, or he returned with a brace of rabbits, perhaps even a young deer slung over his shoulders to be skinned and butchered for the evening’s meal.

There was an underlying wildness to him, in that guarded and wary body language that made him seem untameable, and it fascinated the former Crow. The black-haired man was unreadable, and often made strangers a little uneasy with his slightly grim expression during conversations. He stayed silent until necessary, no doubt a product of his time as a hunter and a ranger. When he spoke, no breath was wasted, no words were fumbled over like with Alistair or Morrigan (and, the Antivan was reluctant to admit, himself as well). He was concise, and highly prefered to listen rather than talk.

The Dalish elf was also used to a life of hardship, which even Zevran only knew the barest of details about. When they had spoken about his long-dead parents long ago, Zevran had expected the discussion to move onto Theron’s own, but it hadn’t. As far as he knew, Theron had never mentioned his parents to anyone in the group. Despite his occasional pangs of homesickness for his clan, it was rarely mentioned willingly. No anecdotes of his youth were shared around the fire to be laughed at or to gain sympathy, to be compared with everyone else’s. He had scars on his body that had been there longer than Alistair had known him, and Theron offered no childhood stories behind them to his lover.

Zevran had found his relationship towards archers thrown into conflict when he met the black-haired man, awoken to see him peering down with his longbow gripped tightly in his hand and shoulders braced. Zevran had long held archers in disdain for their weakness in close combat. They tended to focus so much on mastering their ranged skill, when they were inevitably singled out and cornered for melee combat, not many knew how to even react beyond trying to run, and all that got them was a dagger through their back.

As far as he had seen, Theron readily stood his ground when pressed, knowing that at least one warrior or fellow rogue would be with him shortly. In close range, he lashed out with the hand holding his bow at the risk of breaking his fingers against unyielding armour, or some of his shots grew even more lethal. He tended to go for the eyes, the throat, anywhere soft and vulnerable. Almost like a stag, amusingly.

When he had collected his arrows after a fight, chest heaving for breath as the thrill of the fight left his legs shaking, some of the enemies that had not fallen to the blows of sword or spell were riddled with puncture wounds, as if they had been gored with the tines of antlers. Theron was deadly in a fight once he had the upper hand, and graceful with his bow. Their introduction to each other had proved that.

As he watched the Dalish elf sitting next to him in the quiet of the night as they kept guard over the camp, making slow, halting progress through a book, Zevran came to a decision. Above all, there was a nigh-mythical unreachability about him, an ethereal grace. As much as he wished, the blond knew that he would never truly know everything about Theron and his past, could never get too close in the risk that he would startle and flee back into the secret places that only he knew. And Zevran found himself feeling perfectly content with that. Yes, he was curious, but he would not selfishly poke and prod for answers.

Sensing he was being watched, the ranger looked up through his eyelashes, calloused fingers pausing as the orange glow of the firelight danced over his dark skin. He was completely still, listening to the crackle of the fire beside them, and Zevran once more got the sense he was being warily assessed by the other elf. The Antivan resisted the urge to reach a hand out and make contact, bridge that gap between them.

“What are you thinking?” Theron asked eventually, and Zevran smiled to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I like stags, the Dalish camps have halla. It was destiny, and also inevitable.


End file.
